singing hallelujah

We roll into the empty parking lot, 

windows down, afternoon light all 

angled and golden.  In the backseat, the girls 

are "singing hallelujah for the first time," 

along with The Head and The Heart.  

It is the begining of the first weekend of the school year 

and so we come to the river.
 

Wading in, I try to memorize the feel 

of moving water against my legs 

even as the current crawls to a whisper.

I lean deep into 'lasts' this time of year.  

Maybe I shouldn't.  Maybe I should be 

someone who lives easily in the present, 

devouring the seconds and minutes 

as I move  through them.  

But the end of summer 

makes me nostalgic in ways I can't ignore.  

This could be my last river swim until next summer.

This could be the last week we sleep

with every window in the house

open.

This will be the last summer

my children look this small,

need me 

in this particular way.

I float on my back, 

feet pointed downriver the way 

you're supposed to.  

I watch and listen as the girls

play orphan cave sisters, 

gathering seaweed for the long

voyage to the north shore.

And for a second

I get a glimpse 

of the perfect completeness

of this moment, this perfect arc

of sunlit afternoon, of ending summer,

of my daughters; exactly as they are

today.

And I remember that this day is ours,

and so is the next, that the future is one 

enormous mystery to move through.

Lucky us.*

 

*My friend, Nici, wrote a blog post last spring that ends with these same two words.  Simple as they may be, I think about them often.  Lucky us.  Helps keep everything in perspective.